Running Wild Time and Time Again
by Cookies and Ink
Summary: One man infiltrating a racing gang would be difficult, but Ron can't resist. He's the best car racer in the Auror department no one else could keep up with infamous Harry Potter, ex-convict and suspected thief. With runes etched on his engines and spells in the petrol tank, getting the crew's attention should be easy enough. Or so Ron thinks. [Inspired by the Fast and the Furious]


**A/N: **This fic is part of a collection that I'll be writing inspired by the Fast and the Furious series. It has also been entered into the Quidditch League and prompts used are at the bottom.

* * *

**Running Wild Time and Time Again**

The fact that the hit wizards were taking over an Auror case was quite the controversy. Hit wizards specialised in taking down criminals, not finding them, unlike the Aurors. Ron hadn't really been paying attention to the whispers until Dawlish, who was now heading up the investigation, had asked him to come in for a meeting.

In the meeting, Runcorn had droned on for a solid fifteen minutes about how the very foundations of Wizarding Law Enforcement were being mocked. Ron's bum ached from sitting so still, and he exchanged a look with Dawlish as he tried to muffle a yawn. Dawlish put his hand up to stop Runcorn.

"As the Head of the Hit Wizards, what Mr Runcorn says is very true. The case that we were dealing with originally seemed to revolve around the obliviation of a herbologist. Now, new information has come to light which links this to a series of armed thefts of extremely rare and expensive potions ingredients."

"You think the herbologist is involved because -"

"Because he knew where they were being grown, yes," Dawlish finished for him.

"Okay," Ron said slowly. "Where do I come in?"

"If you had been listening," Runcorn said, frustration clear in his voice. He moved like a caged lion, his presence too big for the room they were in. "All of the robberies were made on the move. The gang that's doing it is skilled, willing to get their hands dirty, and two witnesses have confirmed they were driving cars."

Ron felt a thrill go through him and Runcorn scowled, clearly reading the excitement on his face.

"I've read your record, Weasley," Runcorn said, scorn seeping into his tone. "You spent several years in a youth offender institute for enhancing Muggle cars with magic."

Ron just gazed back steadily, unintimidated.

"We need you to go undercover. We believe that the thieves are involved in street racing. Your job is to gain their trust, find out who it is, and when their next job is, so we can catch them in the act."

"A lot is riding on this, Weasley. I don't care how you get your answers, just get them quickly," Runcorn added. "You might be an insufferable sod, but I know you do good work. Evidence suggests that Harry Potter is our prime suspect. He was sent to Azkaban for several years for aggravated assault and now runs a shop catering towards magical transportation. We know it's a front, but he's good. We've not been able to pin anything on him yet."

"I'll start there then," Ron said, his mind already whirring with ideas.

There was paperwork to sign and then Ron was down in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts garage looking for a car that would get the sort of attention he wanted. His blood rushed in his veins, hinting at an old high he hadn't indulged in some time. Ron couldn't stop the smile that spread across his face as he ran his hand over a cool metal bonnet, popping the hood to check the engine inside a gorgeous Toyota Supra. It was flashy, red, and bound to catch people's eyes. With some runes and spell modifications, it'd be perfect.

One man infiltrating a racing gang, who were notoriously wary of outsiders, would be difficult enough. Attempting to then take down a group of thieves stealing rare ingredients felt near impossible.

'That's why they wanted you,' Ron reminded himself, not one to get nervous. 'No one else can do what you can do. You'll prove them wrong. You always do.'

* * *

Ron focused on his chips, even as he heard rustling behind him. The bench opposite Potter's shop was a little obvious, but he wanted their attention. Things were getting desperate. For the past three days, the shop had been filled nothing more exciting than kids looking to add mods to their brooms. Nothing out of the ordinary. All Ron had been able to do was put names and faces to Harry Potter's crew, namely Seamus Finnegan, Dean Thomas and Harry Potter's adopted sister Hermione Granger.

Dawlish had given him eight more hours before Ron was recalled. The thought made his stomach curdle and Ron scowled to himself. It was infuriating. This was his mission. He was the one at risk. In the end, he'd be the one to get the necessary information. Dawlish didn't have a clue, so why should Ron do what he said? He was an insufferable paper pusher at best.

And yet he'd not found an opening to even talk to Potter, who, as far as Ron could tell, didn't even work in his shop.

"Look who's back; it's the Ginger!"

Ron flicked his eyes up as Finnigan sat next to him on the bench. Dean Thomas slipped into the space on Ron's other side, pressing up against him.

"She's pretty, isn't she. That's got to be why you've been here, every fucking day for the last week, eating lunch and staring into the shop."

Ron could tell his surprise showed on his face because Thomas raised an eyebrow coolly.

"Who's pretty?"

"Don't play smart, Ginger," Finnigan scoffed, Ron's head swivelling between the men like he was on a tennis court. "You need to learn some manners, stop being a perv and find some other bench to eat your lunch off."

"I really don't know who you're talking about."

Finnigan had his hands on the back of Ron's head in a split second, forcing him to turn and look into Potter's shop. There was Hermione; a curvy, dark-skinned girl with her curls framing her face as she sat at the desk, reading a book.

"Keep looking at Hermione and we'll make you regret you have eyes," Finnigan said. Ron felt Thomas sigh next to him, but he didn't say anything. "You need to stay away from her."

"First of all, she's really not my type. Second, get your hands off me." Ron pushed Finnigan away, getting to his feet and Finnigan shot up, so close to Ron they were almost nose to nose.

"There's also the fact that I love the chips from the shop next door." Ron shrugged. "So no, I don't think I'll be finding another bench. I'm going to keep doing whatever I want. No one gives me orders."

Finnigan's scowl twisted into a smirk and then Ron was dodging one fist, air whooshing out of him as Finnigan's other hand punched him hard in the side. Ron dove forward, driving his shoulder into Finnigan's stomach and they were on the floor, scuffling and punching. Ron used his height to his advantage, driving elbows and knees in where he could but Finnigan was stronger and rolled over, pinning him to the floor. They drew their wands at the same time.

Abruptly Ron felt himself flying through the air. He landed on his back, scrambling up to his feet to point his wand at whatever new threat had arrived. Had Thomas finally decided to get involved in the scrap? Instead, he came face to face with Hermione, who had her hands on her hips, no wand in sight.

'Impressive wandless magic.'

"What on earth is going on?"

"This insufferable… prick." Finnigan gritted his teeth, clearly restraining from saying some of the more colourful words that he wanted too. "He's practically stalking you, Herms, so we came out to talk to him."

"It looked like a riveting conversation," Hermione said derisively.

"That's a load of rubbish. I'm not here on my lunches to look at Hermione, no offence."

"None taken, but you have been coming here a lot," she said, with a sharp look in her eyes. "So why are you?"

Ron simply gestured at the three Honda Civics that were always parked outside the shop, each of them sparkling in patterns of gold and red.

"I can recognise rune carved cars. That slight glint that catches your eye even when the sun's not out is an obvious giveaway when you know what to look for. I'm new to town but not new to the scene. I just wasn't about to walk in and try to muscle information out of you."

The scepticism and surprise were clear on each of their faces. Ron dusted himself off as Finnigan paced around him, then shook his head.

"No way you race. You look like you get your clothes from the bin behind the charity shop."

"Low blow, Seamus," Thomas chided. "Even if it's true."

"Tell me when the next race is and I'll prove you wrong. Sixty galleons."

"Seventy-five."

Ron thought about it for a split second, but it wasn't actually his nodded his agreement, vanished the chips that had fallen to the floor, and then looked between the three of them.

"So, when is it? Are either of you racing? Do I get to meet the mysterious Potter who owns this shop but is never around?"

Hermione had a slight smile on her face as she went back inside Potter's shop with a shake of her head. When she came back out a moment later, she was holding a piece of paper.

"The map will appear an hour before the race. And if you meet my brother at the race, well, you'll know about it."

Finnigan stuck his two fingers up at him in lieu of a goodbye, Thomas waving with a smirk whilst Hermione's eyes softened.

"You really don't know what you're getting yourself into. Your sheer stubbornness is going to get you killed."

"If I had a knut for every time someone's said that," Ron laughed. "I wouldn't underestimate me."

He winked at her, then disapparated away, clutching a blank piece of paper. He was supposed to get anything and everything examined by the Department but Ron simply placed it aside. After getting a taste of Hermione's wandless magic, he wouldn't be surprised if there was a tracker on it.

His report to his superiors would have to wait.

For now, Ron had a race to prepare for.

* * *

Heavy bass pulsed through the air, mingling with his accelerated heartbeat. Ron stepped out of his car, inhaling the heady scent of magic mixed with petrol fumes. People were still arriving, driving through the magically concealed entrance to the deserted crossroads that was the start and finish line for the street races that evening.

Ron had already been driving around, playing with the clutch control and shifting gears when the map had lit up, spidery black lines tracing across the paper to indicate that the race was going to be held in Birmingham. He'd stuck to Muggle roads, enjoying the thrill of weaving through traffic, taking turns just a moment too late to feel his pulse race.

He had received two owls that afternoon from Runcorn telling him to avoid getting Muggle traffic infractions, taking him from insufferable to infuriating in Ron's mind. He had cheerfully burnt them in his fireplace. All he was doing was his job, whatever it took. He'd emptied out his bank account, putting through his expense request, including the handful of sickles he'd spent every day getting chips by Harry's. It was a lot of money but it was what had to happen. He needed to get the racers attention, after all. It was the right thing to do.

Someone must have cast warming charms in the area because everyone seemed comfortable in clothes more suited to a balmy summer's day in the Mediterranean rather than an April evening in the Midlands. Ron was glad for the faded Chudley Cannons t-shirt he'd thrown on. He weaved through the crowds, nodding at those that met his eyes, but the familiar faces he was searching for found him first.

"What a coincidence. The prick supports a rubbish team. A rubbish team, rubbish sense of style, where's your rubbish car?" Finnigan asked, his grin all teeth.

"Sod off. I'm ready to race when you are," Ron said, trying to rein his temper in. "Are you ready to put your money where your mouth is and then watch me drive away with it?"

There was a chorus of laughs from the people around them and Finnigan flushed.

"One second," an unfamiliar voice called. The crowd parted and a lithe, petite, Asian man walked towards them. "You promised me you'd introduce me to the newbie on the scene, Seamus."

Finnigan shrugged. "Eh, totally forgot."

The man rolled eyes that Ron noted were a brilliant green. It reminded him of stripes he'd painted on the first car he'd totalled going over 100mph. The smile that bloomed across the man's face gave Ron the same lurching, disorientating feeling he'd felt as he'd crashed through the windshield. Abruptly Ron focused on his occlumency shields. He had a mission. Nothing else mattered.

"I'm Harry."

"Ron. You're a hard man to find."

"Oh, I hope so," Potter said, still with that easy smile. "What're you driving?"

Ron brought them over to his car. There were some whistles and then Potter popped open the hood, peering inside.

"That's impressive work," he said softly, giving Ron an appraising look. "Hermione told me you were hovering outside the shop waiting for the balls to come inside? You sure you've got what it takes?"

"This isn't my first ten-second car or my first race."

"Awfully confident," Potter said, eyebrows raising. Ron was close enough to notice the ring of contact lenses in his eyes. Ron just laughed.

"Stubbornness is a virtue if you're right, and I'm always right."

Potter didn't respond for a second, then snapped his fingers. Everyone seemed to pay attention, the air itself charged with energy, waiting for what Potter would do next.

"Let's race. Seventy-five galleons to enter. The winner gets it all."

There were five of them that drove up to the starting line, a conjured ribbon hovering in the air. Ron thought about what he'd do with all of that money, even as he gave a mock salute to Finnigan, who was throttling his engine next to him. Winning and getting on Potter's radar was what mattered.

The race was a disaster.

Ron had sized up the other racers within four seconds of them each speeding away. Tyres had squealed, engines revving loudly as the gears climbed higher. He would have had them, Ron knew that, if he hadn't made a stupid mistake. He wasn't familiar with the winding streets or the course they took, but he knew how to recognise fake walls, how to drift around tight corners into cobbled streets and not feel the need to even hint at pressing the brake. None of that mattered in the end.

The car was good, but it hadn't been as good as Ron had needed it to be.

Finnigan clapped slowly, mockingly as Ron braked sharply to a stop, dead last after he'd spun out with a three-second lead ahead of anyone else, with only two hundred yards to go.

"Coincidences upon coincidences," Finnigan laughed gleefully. Ron got out of his car as Finnigan came closer. Static magic sparked from his grill, making Finnigan yelp and the surrounding crowd gasp.

"Amateur mistake," Potter said. He hadn't raised his voice, but Ron felt the words hit him like a punch to the gut. "I'd say pop the hood, but honestly I don't think anyone should go near that car when there's so much live magic in the air. Still, you carved runes directly onto the engine that couldn't handle it, cast spells inside the petrol tank… I'm surprised it didn't spark and blow you fifty feet high when you hit fifth gear."

Ron didn't say anything, his face burning in shame. Potter gave him a knowing look.

"It almost did," Ron muttered and there were murmurs around them. "I barely managed to keep it all under control."

"Which was when you spun out. Clearly not one for multitasking"

Potter was mocking him now. Fuck him. Fuck them all. Ron was better than them, he knew he was. He could beat them, he just needed another chance. Except that had been his one and only chance to get Potter's attention for the right reasons.

It didn't matter if it was by an inch or a mile. Winning was winning. Nobody cared about losers.

Potter was watching him, clearly expecting some sort of retort, but all Ron wanted to do was punch someone and disapparate.

"Tomorrow, nine thirty am," Potter said finally, turning away.

"What?" Ron asked, confused. Hermione gave him a knowing look as Finnigan sputtered in indignation.

"Potter, you can't be serious! No way, no way is this prick going to be -"

"Shut up Seamus. Tomorrow at nine thirty, Ron Weasley. You're going to be outside my shop. Yes, I know your last name. Hermione here looked you up. I know all about your stint in juvie, the string of jobs you've been sacked from because of your temper or lack of attendance. Still, those runes were sharp and the fact that you can cast whilst going over 120mph says a lot. Either you're talking out of your arse or you've got potential. I want to see which."

Ron's brain scrambled to catch up after Potter finished, as he'd frozen with his hand on his wand when Potter had said his surname. Thanking the gods that the alias the Aurors had made for him had held, Ron gave a mute nod then when Harry turned away, flashed two fingers up at Finnigan, who lunged for him, Thomas moving to hold him back.

His car sparked again as Ron leaned against it. Ron let the magic rush through him, making his heartbeat stutter. Tomorrow morning he was going to work for the elusive Harry Potter, an infamous street racer, and potentially a criminal mastermind wanted throughout the Ministry.

He had a letter to write to Runcorn and Dawlish.

He needed a new car, too.

* * *

**A/N:** This was entered for Round 1 of Season 7 of the QLFC. I am Chaser 3 for the Montrose Magpies and my prompt was **Write about a canonly stubborn character faced with insurmountable odds.**

Optional Prompts used were: **(word) insufferable**, **(word) coincidence** and **(dialogue) "If I had a knut for every time (...) said that..."**

The fic title is a lyric from 'Furious' by Ja Rule, one of the singles from The Fast and The Furious soundtrack.


End file.
